The Black Sleep
by davros72
Summary: Our heroes head for India on a dark adventure...


TITLE: **The Black Sleep**

AUTHOR: Kevin Schultz

RATING: PG-13, for some scenes of violence

DISCLAIMERS: Specifics to follow in the Endnotes, however no infringement of anything is intended.

Sir Jonathan Chatsworth shivered within the folds of his overcoat. The cold night air did nothing to improve his already frosty spirits. Supervision of a delivery was usually something best left to the younger, less experienced members of the British Secret Service, and not normally the purview of the Service's Director. However, this was a unique circumstance, and Chatsworth did not wish to relinquish the duties to an underling.

The rain slashed down angrily, whipped into Chatsworth's face by the fierce wind that howled down the London streets. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Chatsworth watched with beady eyes as four agents approached the recently arrived carriage. They were all good, dependable men. Glancing behind him at the British Museum, Chatsworth allowed himself a thin smile. This was going rather well, the cold weather notwithstanding.

One of the agents opened the carriage door and leaned inside. From within, he produced an ornate wooden box, about the size of a breadbasket. The agent looked over at Chatsworth and nodded. Receiving a nod in return, the agent turned his attention to his compatriots. He looked at each in turn, noting their ready pistols. As the agent hefted the box and turned back to Chatsworth, his eyes suddenly bulged. The agent looked down at his feet, and saw a gushing of blood spray from his ankles. The man slid forward to fall face first on the ground as his feet remained set in place, having been completely severed at the ankles. The box thumped onto the ground as the other agents pulled their pistols, not entirely sure what was happening.

Chatsworth groaned as he saw a dark-clad figure detach itself from beneath the carriage and jump up behind the three remaining agents. It was a massively tall man, dressed in tight black robes, with a type of turban or some sort of dressing atop his head. In his hands he held a dangerous-looking curved scimitar, blood dripping from its blade. The man smiled through his burly beard as he stepped forward, swinging his sword and taking out the three agents all at once before they could even get a single shot off. This all happened in a few short seconds, which was about the time it took for Chatsworth to draw his own pistol and bring it to bear on the dark figure. Before he could fire, however, he was struck from behind, and he fell upon the stone surface of the Museum steps. He looked up in time to see another black-clad giant raise a sword above his head, ready to deliver a killing blow.

Chatsworth fired by blind instinct, hitting his attacker in the heart. He scrambled aside as the dead man's sword clattered to the ground.

Having heard the crack of the shot, the original attacker moved swiftly to take care of the last remaining obstacle, Sir Jonathan Chatsworth. Chatsworth stood shakily, taking quick aim at the dark figure, but before he could fire, the swing of the attacker's sword knocked the pistol out of his hand.

"Damn," he hissed, more from frustration than panic. He could taste blood in his mouth. Chatsworth backed away hastily, hoping to reach his pistol before his attacker could lunge forward. Instead, he stumbled against the sword of the dead man, and, again working by instinct, he quickly grabbed it and held it out before him.

His assailant slowed just enough to give Chatsworth a malevolent grin and a shake of the head. A forceful lunge pressed Chatsworth back up the steps of the Museum as he parried as best he could. His swordsman training held him in good stead, for a time. Their swords clanged together loudly as each man fought determinedly. But the sheer strength and power of his attacker wore him down quickly, and soon Chatsworth's strength began to flag. The dark ruffian pressed forward, his blade biting into Chatsworth's side. Chatsworth winced, hacking the man's sword away, even as he slipped on the rain-slicked surface and fell once more onto the steps. Another swing by his foe and Chatsworth could only watch as his own sword flew through the air, out of reach.

The black-clad figure smiled, stepping forward to finish off the exhausted Chatsworth.

A shot rang out in the night, and the villain's sword clattered away. Chatsworth dared to glance up at the entrance to the Museum, to see the four Secret Service agents who had been stationed inside the building awaiting the delivery swarm down the steps towards the stranger. The villain, seeing he was outnumbered, turned and fled down the steps, stopping only to pick up the strongbox from beside the carriage, then fled down the street, losing himself in the slashing rain and the dark of night.

"What the hell kept you?" Chatsworth grumbled angrily as he stood, holding his side to staunch the flow of blood. The four agents looked at one another worriedly. "Get after him!" Chatsworth yelled at them, then watched as the men hurried down the puddled street after the escaping ruffian.

Rebecca Fogg sat in Sir Jonathan Chatsworth's office, calmly listening to her fuming superior as he related the details of the previous night's attack.

"And, of course, they managed to lose the man, damn them," he finished sourly. He gritted his teeth as he sat down behind his desk, the effort causing considerable pain to his wound, now covered expertly in bandages.

"I'm sure they did their utmost, Sir Jonathan," Rebecca pointed out in her sweetest yet least patronizing voice.

"I daresay they did," Chatsworth agreed reluctantly. "Still, we did manage to lose the cargo."

"And what cargo was that?" Rebecca inquired.

Chatsworth pulled a file over to him from the piles of folders on his desk. "Apparently it was called a Sankara Stone. A gift to Her Majesty from the Governor of India, the Stone was reputed to have certain unspecified powers. What nonsense," he muttered.

Rebecca nodded politely. "Of course. And my mission will be to recover this Sankara Stone, I take it..."

"Quite. However, most likely the thief has left the country by now, headed back to India." Chatsworth pushed a slip of paper to Rebecca's side of the desk. "I want you to see our Special Agent In Charge of Indian Affairs, Mr. Palin, he's upstairs. He should be able to give you some background information, possibly even where to begin your search."

Rebecca stood up to leave.

"One more thing," Chatsworth said evenly. "Do be careful. These criminals are... quite dangerous."

Rebecca eyed Chatsworth's bandages and nodded her understanding, then withdrew. Chatsworth let out a forceful sigh, wincing from the pain the action caused in his side.

* * *

As she entered the tidy but cramped little office that was Room 206, Rebecca couldn't help but notice the handsome man sat squarely behind his mahogany desk, examining a single file on his desktop. He was within striking distance of middle age, a touch of grey in his short, dark hair. His pleasant, friendly face displayed hints of lines, but the cheerful eyes made one forget any concerns about advancing age. His eyes brightened even further as he saw Rebecca appear in his doorway.

"Agent Rebecca Fogg," he exclaimed with evident joy in his voice, "how wonderful to see you! How long has it been?" He stood to shake her hand.

"Oh, much too long, Mr. Palin," Rebecca replied just as pleasantly as she was directed to a seat by the desk.

"Ken, please, I insist," Mr. Palin corrected politely, sitting down once again in his chair.

"Ken," Rebecca smiled. "I've been sent to you by Sir Jonathan. We've had a situation develop..."

"Yes, I've heard. Sir Jonathan attacked by Thuggee cultists, who stole our Sankara Stone."

"Ah. So you've heard."

"How could one not? The fuss Sir Jonathan made over his wounds... I imagine everyone within a twelve-mile radius knows of the theft of the Sankara Stone."

Rebecca laughed. "Oh, I'm sure it wasn't that bad..."

"You weren't here when he got back in last night, were you?" Ken responded.

"No, I wasn't."

"Well, enough about our illustrious leader, let's get to the real reason why you're here."

Rebecca handed him the paper Chatsworth had given her before she had left his office. Ken looked it over quickly.

"Yes, well, that all seems straightforward enough," Ken mused. "So, let me tell you my version of what has occurred, shall I?" Receiving a polite nod, he continued. "Recently, the Governor of India, Lord Canning, came into the possession of a Sankara Stone. As a tribute to Her Majesty Queen Victoria, he bequeathed this precious Stone to the British Museum. Whilst the Stone was en route to the Museum, the delivery was ambushed by Thuggee cultists."

"Excuse me," Rebecca interrupted. "You mentioned the Thuggees before. Why are you certain they were involved?"

"I was able to examine the corpse of the attacker Sir Jonathan was able to dispatch," Ken replied, turning back to the file he had been studying when Rebecca had arrived. "The dead man had a large tattoo of the goddess Kali across his entire back. Stunning work, yet also quite revolting. The Thuggees worship Kali, one of the Hindu tantric goddesses, offering human sacrifices to her, among other disreputable acts. The Thuggees were thought to have been wiped out not too long ago, but it seems they have not been completely obliterated."

"Yes," Rebecca nodded, "I had thought they were defeated during the Indian Mutiny."

"Apparently not." Ken dug in a desk drawer and pulled out a card. He scribbled on it briefly and handed it to Rebecca. "Here is the name of a friend of mine in the government offices in Bombay. I would suggest you contact him once you arrive in India, and see if he can give you any further information. He may have a better idea of where the Thuggees may be operating from, or at least where to start looking."

Rebecca took the card and smiled at Ken. "Thank you so much," she said. She looked down at the card and read, "'Captain James Brosnan, Thuggee and Dacoity Department.' I can see why you'd think he'd be able to help."

"Quite," Ken agreed.

"One question, though... 'Dacoity?'"

Ken nodded. "Roughly translated it means 'armed robbery.'"

"I see," Rebecca replied as she stood up to take her leave.

"Good luck, Agent Fogg."

The grand airship Aurora lifted off the ground from its London station and rose towards the clouds. At its helm, Jean Passepartout stood behind the steering globe and, with a steady, practiced touch, guided the dirigible on the first leg of its journey towards India as the winds gently aided the airship on its way.

Phileas Fogg, the Aurora's owner, and the gentleman to whom Passepartout served as valet, sat down in a comfortable reading chair in the main cabin of the ship and leafed idly through the latest issue of the London Times. His cousin, Rebecca Fogg, was engaged in a solo game of darts, the missiles whizzing dangerously near Phileas' head yet their passage raising not a single eyebrow from the dapper gentleman.

The fourth and final passenger on the airship was a handsome young writer by the name of Jules Verne. A Frenchman by birth, his association with the Foggs had long since brought him into the world of adventure and intrigue. As he wrote in his journal, he wondered what new vistas of excitement may be opened to him on this, his first journey to India.

"Thuggees, hm?" Phileas mused. "Are we certain these weren't simply common thugs?"

Rebecca shook her head, then launched another dart at the bullseye of the board. "Not according to Mr. Palin, and I would trust him to know for certain."

"If you say so."

"It all sounds fascinating!" Jules enthused from across the room at the table. "A totally alien culture, with beliefs and ideals contrary to Western thinking... This will be quite the adventure!"

"You may wish to temper that enthusiasm, Verne," Phileas scolded coolly from behind his newspaper. "If you were to witness their human sacrifices and diabolical torture, you might change your mind."

Jules paused in his pen-scratching. "You believe that propaganda?"

"I've witnessed it first-hand," Phileas said quietly, his smoldering eyes conveniently hidden behind his Times. The memories of a previous adventure in India still lived inside him, and would not let him go. Even Rebecca did not know the full details, nor did she know that part of the reason Phileas agreed to the use of the Aurora for the mission was, surprisingly even to himself, his desire to face his fears, to purge the awful memories of long ago. He flicked to another page of the newspaper and cleared his throat. "Suffice to say, the Thuggees deserved what they got when the British wiped them out."

"Not quite wiped out, Phileas," Rebecca reminded him. "We have evidence that there is at least one member still out there, and most likely a good deal more than just him."

"Hmmm." Phileas pursed his lips, his eyes focused once more on the Times.

Silent up until now, Passepartout called back to his friends, "I am hoping not to be human sacrificed myself. Sound fun it is not!"

"Indeed not," whispered Phileas.

* * *

After brief stopovers at Brindisi and later Suez to pick up some supplies and to stretch their legs, the Aurora eventually touched down on a barren strip of land near the outskirts of Bombay.

A quick carriage ride swept Phileas, Rebecca and Jules to the offices of Captain James Brosnan. Captain Brosnan's adjutant led the trio into a cool, shaded courtyard behind the main offices and sat them at a little table. The adjutant, a tough-looking, thickset man of about fifty who insisted they simply call him Edwards, glided off to fetch his Captain. As the three friends sipped from the Darjeeling tea that they found on the table, they looked about them at the peacefulness of the pleasant courtyard. A row of small trees lined the edge of the patio facing another row of government offices.

After a few moments, a tall, thin, elegantly handsome man approached from within the Dacoity offices. Rebecca noted with great interest the way his uniform clung to his fine masculine form, and the way his dark hair enhanced the steel edge in his eyes. The man offered Rebecca a smile as he noted her interest while at the same time holding out a hand for Phileas. "Captain James Brosnan, at your service," the man said with a very slight Irish lilt in his voice as he shook hands with Phileas, then Jules, and kissed the back of Rebecca's gloved hand. He then waved them back to their seats as he took his own. "I received a telegram from London, from my old friend Ken Palin. He mentioned possible Thuggee activity..."

"Yes, indeed, Captain," Rebecca nodded. She related to the Captain the events of the attack in London, as well as the evidence pointing to the possible identity of the culprits. "And the attack was carried out to retrieve something called a Sankara Stone," she finished.

Brosnan nodded. "I have heard of these Stones. Extremely rare, but much sought after. If the Thuggees have captured one, I imagine they will be searching for the remaining ones."

"There are more than one?" Jules said, the wonder quite evident in his voice.

"Apparently five, from the accounts I've read," Brosnan replied. "The legends surrounding the Stones hint at unusual powers if all five are brought together."

"What sort of powers?" Jules pressed.

"Unknown, I'm afraid," Brosnan said, taking a quick sip of his tea. "The vaguest of hints are the most that can be gleaned from the reports."

"Do you have any idea of where we should begin our search for these Thuggees or the Stone?" Rebecca inquired, attempting to bring the focus of the conversation back to her assignment. Jules was a wonderfully imaginative young man, full of curiosity, but occasionally his enthusiasm tended to lead him... rather astray. She flashed a brief, slightly apologetic smile at the Captain.

Brosnan appeared to understand as he quickly returned her smile with his own (quite winning, Rebecca thought) grin. "In advance of your arrival, I dispatched several of my men to all sectors of the nation that has seen Thuggee activity in the past." From within his coat he produced a folded map, which he proceeded to open, lay on the table, and smooth out as best he could. His finger drew a line from area to area of the map, and then stopped at one point northeast of Bombay. "This is the only area from which my men have not returned."

Rebecca peered at the parchment in front of her. The Captain's slender finger rested below one word. "Pankot," she murmured.

The next morning, Captain Brosnan rode with the trio (who had spent a surprisingly quiet night at some quarters Brosnan had arranged for them to use) back to the Aurora. As they alighted from the carriage, the Captain held out his hand to assist Rebecca as she stepped down onto the dusty ground.

"Thank you," she smiled at the Captain, who bowed in return.

"I wish you all the best of luck," Captain Brosnan said solemnly as the three friends paused at the threshold to the interior of the airship. "I regret that I could not give you more information than what little I was able to provide."

Rebecca nodded. "We appreciate what you did, Captain. I hope we see you soon."

As the three entered their ship, Captain Brosnan nodded slightly in return. "As do I, Miss Fogg," he murmured softly.

* * *

Once in the air, Passepartout guided the ship towards the area Brosnan had indicated on his map, near Pankot. After a quiet daytime flight, the Aurora drifted gently lower as its pilot spotted the lights of a small village twinkling in the dusty twilight. They had not reached the location of the Palace itself, but were still some distance away. Unable to find a proper landing site, Phileas, Rebecca and Jules decided to use the Aurora's platform and lower themselves to the ground on the outskirts of the village.

"Why can't we just land in the village itself?" Jules asked. "Or even the Palace itself? Captain Brosnan said it has been deserted since the Mutiny."

Rebecca smiled at the innocence in Jules' questions and voice. "Because, dear Jules, if there is Thuggee activity in this area, we don't want to drop right in the middle of it, do we?"

"No, of course not," Jules replied, nodding understandingly.

The platform worked its way down to ground level, halting a foot above the ground. Phileas leapt lightly onto the soil, turned to assist Rebecca, and saw a small child standing in the bushes behind their platform, staring at the three newcomers to his world. "Ah," he stated calmly. "It appears our arrival will not go unnoticed for long," he continued as the boy ran off into the brush towards the village.

Rebecca and Jules followed closely behind Phileas as they made their way to the small collection of huts and buildings. By now, the child had spread the message of the visitors, and a group of villagers had gathered outside a large central building to watch as the newcomers cautiously approached.

A tall, white haired elderly man stepped forward out of the group of villagers and looked at the three friends, his dark eyes piercing them inquisitively, but not threateningly. The impression Rebecca received was that of protective defensiveness, not aggression or violence. She glanced at a few of the other men behind what she took to be their leader, and their eyes were the same. These people were worried, not angry. Perhaps Thuggee trouble? she thought. She caught sight of the child who had spotted them clinging to the leg of a handsome, dark-faced man with slightly graying hair. She heard the little boy whisper to the man, "Father! They fell from sky! Like my dream!"

The man shushed the boy. The excited child clamped his mouth shut and hid behind the leg of his father, still intently watching the newcomers.

The leader stopped in front of Phileas. He spoke, but it took Rebecca a few seconds to recognize it as Hindu. "Who are you?" the man asked.

Phileas replied, his answer also in Hindu. "We are travelers, seeking thieves who stole the property of our Queen. We understand they may be in this area."

The old man shook his head. "We are not thieves, we do not know your Queen."

"I was not accusing any of you of the theft," Phileas said, bowing slightly to indicate his respect. "We merely wish to know if you have encountered Thuggee cultists recently."

At the word "Thuggee" many of the crowd of villagers gasped and huddled closer together. The leader's eyes narrowed as he replied, "Do not bring their terror here. We do not wish you to stay here. We ask that you leave immediately."

Phileas bowed once more. "I apologize if I have offended. Please know that was not my intention. We merely wish to find those men who stole the Queen's stone."

The murmuring from the crowd stopped. "Stone?" the leader repeated.

"Yes," Phileas explained, "a smooth stone, shaped like a large egg, with three straight lines across the middle. Perhaps you have seen it?"

The leader stared at Phileas. Then he turned, and walked towards the crowd, which parted to let him pass. He led the visitors to a small pile of rock, almost like an altar. At the top of the pile was a small niche carved into the rock. Within the rock rested a smooth, rounded stone, with three lines across it.

"The Sankara Stone!" Phileas breathed.

"This stone has been in our village for many generations," the leader said proudly. "It has not been stolen. And we do not want the Thuggees to know it is here. We know of how they want the power of the stones. You must go, before you bring their evil here." The man pointed a shaking finger towards the bushes on the outskirts of the village.

Rebecca glanced over at her now silent cousin. Phileas simply stared at the stone, his dark eyes unblinking.

"But we only--" Jules began.

"Go!" the old man hissed at them.

Phileas tore his gaze from the stone and cast his eyes downward. Almost inward, Rebecca thought.

The villagers began to crowd around them, forcing them back out of the village. They did not produce any weapons, but the force behind their anger was power enough. Phileas, Rebecca and Jules climbed back onto the platform.

"I'm sorry," Phileas told them. "I did not want to cause any trouble."

"Do not return," the leader growled at him as the platform rose slowly into the air.

* * *

The ride back up to the airship was thick with frustration.

"How do we know that wasn't the stone we were after?" Jules asked.

"We just know," Phileas groused, staring down at the fires of the village.

"But what if we took that stone instead--"

"No," Rebecca said vehemently. "We are not compounding one crime with yet another."

"And who's to say that the stone presented to Her Majesty isn't stolen from some place, like another village?" Jules persisted.

"That, my dear Verne," Phileas intoned gravely, "is a completely different argument for a completely different time."

Jules was quiet after that, silent until well after they returned to the airship.

Rebecca, Phileas and Jules sat around the Aurora's main table while Passepartout served dinner, bustling around the table with dishes, plates, glasses, and the like.

"Well, now what?" Rebecca asked, her frustration mounting as she spoke. "Have you any idea of what to do next?"

Phileas sat still, looking blankly towards the front of the Aurora, eyes focused on nothing but the black night sky through the main windows. Rebecca leaned over towards him and snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. He blinked, and flicked his gaze back towards her. There was something in his eyes, some glimmer that Rebecca saw, that told her the usual "I'll be just as rude to you as you are to everyone else" routine would not work this time with her cousin.

"What is the matter, Phileas?" Rebecca asked, genuinely concerned. "Is it about... about what happened to Victor Maxwell?"

Phileas looked down at his hands, which clenched slightly at the mention of the name of his former partner. "Perhaps." He stood up, looked around the table at his friends. "Call me when we reach Pankot." He walked solemnly down the corridor to his quarters, neatly shutting the door with a quiet click.

Rebecca's eyes had followed him as he left, and now she could not tear her eyes from his closed door. "Who is Victor Maxwell?" she heard Jules ask.

Rebecca looked over at her young friend. "Victor Maxwell was in the Service with Phileas. He was his partner for a time, some years ago. He... died while on a mission with Phileas. Here in India. He's never really spoken about it to anyone. I don't think even Sir Jonathan knows the full details."

Passepartout began clearing Phileas' place at the table. "He never speak of Victor Maxwell at me," he said softly.

Rebecca looked out the window, much the same as her cousin had done a short time ago. "Something happened out here," she said pensively. "Something..."

* * *

It was still dark, very early in the morning, when the Aurora approached the sprawling, impressive landmark that was Pankot Palace. No lights shone from any of the windows, but the buildings were picked out in the gleaming moonlight. Passepartout set the airship down gently in a small clearing a short distance from what appeared to be the main entrance.

"It appears to be deserted, as Captain Brosnan said," Phileas said as he holstered his pistol.

Rebecca meanwhile had changed into her dark leather catsuit. "It's too large for us to be certain it's entirely abandoned. We'll have to search the place. It's the most likely location for the Thuggee headquarters, based on our scant evidence, and I can't imagine that they'd not utilize it."

Attaching a small pouch of equipment to her belt, Rebecca noticed a look pass between Jules and Passepartout. She straightened up and looked at them both. "You are not coming with us."

"Rebecca," Jules protested, "you saw the size of that palace just as well as we did. It's too large for the two of you to cover all by yourselves. We want to help. We feel like we've been pushed to the side for too long on this mission."

Rebecca sighed. "Is this your opinion as well, Passepartout?"

"Yes, Miss Rebecca," the loyal valet responded. She knew he could be fiercely determined, and brave beyond measure. Jules, on the other hand... well, Jules tried his best. She looked at her cousin.

"Out of the question," Phileas replied curtly, stalking out of the airship.

Rebecca watched him go, then turned to her two friends. "I'm sorry. I have to agree with him, for once. It's just too dangerous. These Thuggees are a fanatical, violent cult and I don't want you two getting hurt. Stay with the Aurora, keep it ready for immediate departure. Understood?"

Jules' face creased into a frown, but he nodded. "Understood. Be careful out there."

"We will," Rebecca smiled kindly at him. She hated to see him so despondent, but it really was too hazardous for two untrained (well, with Passepartout, who knew, but best to be safe) civilians. Holstering her own pistols, Rebecca left the Aurora, following the path of her troubled cousin.

The shadows Rebecca and Phileas cast in the moonlight snuck across the grounds of Pankot Palace, following the two cousins as they stealthily approached the main entrance. They ran up a sweeping stone ramp leading to an impressively large doorway. Once inside, they split up, Phileas heading left, and Rebecca heading right.

Rebecca crept up on a small open courtyard. There was no one in sight here, no one in sight anywhere. No evidence of any recent habitation by human beings, only the leavings of birds and various rodents. She moved on beyond the courtyard, and passed through a doorway inside one of the many interconnected buildings of the palace grounds.

With no light to guide her, she pulled a small torch from one of her pouches and lit it quickly. The light was small and feeble, but better than nothing.

As she moved through the palace, Rebecca sensed...something. She wasn't sure what, but it felt like a deep, repeating pounding, resonating throughout the fabric of the buildings. Very faint, very quiet, yet present all around. She paused, listening closer. It was just barely there, teasing her senses. But there was nothing to pinpoint, nothing to follow. Instead, she continued on her previous course.

Rounding a corner, she thought she heard a movement up ahead. She stopped, waiting. A faint step echoed back to her, and she hurried forward. In her haste, she failed to notice the cracked opening in the floor ahead of her, and she fell tumbling down into the hole, her arms flailing to catch purchase somewhere but failing. Abruptly, her fall stopped, and she knew nothing but total blackness.

* * *

Phileas Fogg moved through another part of the palace, his pistol drawn. He had refused to create any light, instead moving forward by nothing more than sensory input. It was slow going, but denying an enemy a chance to learn his location was important at this stage of the game. Better to find them before they found you, he thought to himself.

After a time, his strategy paid off. He heard movement up ahead. He was in a dark corridor, leading where he knew not. But he clearly discerned the sounds of motion further along the corridor. He pressed himself up against the right-hand wall and crept forward, keeping his ears primed for further sound.

Eventually he detected a very faint glimmer of light, far off in the distance down the long hallway. Occasionally, a figure would block out what little light glimmered in the distance, telling Phileas he was still on track. His quarry was leading him somewhere.

As he followed the figure which led him down stone steps, through rooms, along corridors, Phileas felt an icy hand grip his heart as a deep, reverberating boom, repeating itself over and over, echoed through the palace. He instinctively knew what he was going to find, and it chilled him to the bone. Suddenly, the person leading him along swung open a heavy door, and Phileas fell back from the intense, blood-red light that poured forth from the opening. He ducked back down the passageway, hiding behind a turn in the corridor, and peered back at the doorway.

Nothing much could be seen in the chamber beyond, apart from redness, occasional billows of white smoke, and the figures of men walking in unison, almost as if in a daze. The men wore simple robes with belts, most wore turbans upon their heads.

Phileas crept forward, his eyes glued to the door in case someone were to move his way and notice his presence. To the side, he spotted a crack of red light outlining another, smaller door. Cautiously he pushed it open, and, seeing no one inside, he hurried in and shut the door behind him. A short flight of steps led to what appeared to be a small balcony overlooking whatever was happening inside the chamber. With a heavy heart, he climbed the steps, crouching low to avoid detection, and peered over the lip of the stone balcony.

The scene before him filled him with horror. He was looking at a massive, tall chamber, divided by a deep chasm, carved from the surrounding rock. A huge multi-limbed statue stood in pride of place at the center of the far side of the chamber, two of its arms outstretched, chains hanging from the hands leading down to a thin metal cage hanging above yet another deep opening. A crowd of around fifty men chanted and swayed on the near side of the chamber to Phileas' balcony, while on the far side, across the chasm, a tall, dark-cloaked man in a skull-and-horns headdress, some sort of high priest, Phileas imagined, faced the crowd, chanting in a loud, deep, sepulchral voice. A number of what appeared to be guards stood ranked around him, while one guard held a small, thin young woman tight in his arms. The woman appeared to be crying, but was otherwise still. Her gaze was locked upon the ground.

He had seen this before. Not quite on this scale, not in this location, but the same staging, the same arrogant look on the leader's face, the same fervor in the followers' eyes. Another victim of sacrifice, another offering for the goddess Kali. He shut his eyes and slumped down onto the floor of the balcony, the chant of the Thuggees echoing throughout the chamber. He saw the pleading eyes of his friend, his partner, Victor Maxwell, he heard the man's screams as... The vision cut off abruptly as the woman's scream pierced through his reverie.

Phileas leapt up, wrenched his eyes open, and looked down at the altar of Kali. The woman had been placed into the small cage, the high priest reaching out to her with his right hand. She screamed, then, amazingly for someone so distant from him, somehow seemed to notice Phileas on the balcony across the chamber. Phileas drew his pistol, smiled grimly as the woman's screams stopped, perhaps in hope, and he fired. The bullet knocked the high priest's skull headdress off, sending it towards a large half-buried wooden winch.

Immediately, all chanting stopped. Everyone froze. The woman screamed, "Help me!" The high priest whipped his head round, spotted Phileas, and shouted something in what seemed to him to be possibly Sanskrit. Thuggees scrambled towards Phileas, scrambling up the wall and climbing over the edge of the balcony. By the time Phileas came back to his senses and headed back down the steps, more cultists were swarming through the small door, while the first climbers reached him from behind. His arms were grabbed roughly, and a short sword was held to his throat.

"Ah," Phileas said calmly. "We've not met before, have we?" He smiled icily at his captors.

* * *

A lone figure watched from the far end of the corridor, nervously watching Thuggees rush through the balcony entrance. There was no hope for Phileas, Jules Verne thought. We need help.

He turned and ran, not caring if anyone heard his footsteps. They probably wouldn't, with all the commotion they were making back there. Phileas and Rebecca may not have wanted him to come with them, but his curiosity and adventurousness could not hold him back. He had caught up with the two Foggs just as they had split up after entering the palace grounds. Jules decided to trail Phileas, mainly because he knew Rebecca could absolutely take care of herself, but also because something about Phileas lately had been... off. He was distracted, apparently by the past. And Jules knew that could be extremely dangerous, especially when it involved Phileas Fogg.

He raced out of the palace and headed for the Aurora.

Phileas was shoved inside a cage which was tucked away in a small room off the main temple. He assumed it was a temple of some sort, judging by the worshipers, the high priest, the altar, the statue of the goddess Kali. What else could it be?

The cage was small, cramped, barely room enough for one man. It was dark back here, too. Not exactly the finest of accommodations, but Phileas was determined to make the best of it. He sat down, folding his legs beneath him, and waited.

After a long interval, the tall man from the ceremony approached his prison. The man's fiery eyes peered at Phileas, and Phileas stared right back.

"Who are you?" the man asked in his deep voice, now speaking in English.

Phileas said nothing.

"I can make you answer," the priest continued. "I have had much practice." He snapped his fingers, and a pair of guards appeared at his side. One held an overturned skull, balancing it carefully in his hands.

The priest turned to reach for the skull, then paused. He turned slowly back to face Phileas. Leaning closer to the cage, the high priest smiled. "I know you already. We have met before."

Phileas frowned. The man did not look familiar. Although... he searched the man's face again, in particular the priest's eyes. Something, some memory... Good God, no. Please, Lord Almighty, not him...

Phileas scrambled further back in his cage, as far back as he could go. "Keep away," he hissed.

The high priest laughed. "I see you recognize me now, too. That is good." He reached to his guard and grasped the skull. "Since you have drunk the Blood of Kali before, it will be so much easier to take you over once again." The two guards unlocked and opened the cage, dragging Phileasly violently out into the open. One pinned his arms back, the other clawed at his head, forcing his jaw open.

The high priest stepped forward. "You have returned to Kamir Behram, just as I had predicted..." He tipped the skull forward so it touched Phileas' lips, and a thick red liquid flowed forth down Phileas' throat. Retching and coughing, he tried not to swallow, but was unsuccessful. The guard clamped his mouth shut and held his nose, giving Phileas no option but to swallow the vile liquid.

One he had swallowed, the guards released him, he screamed once, and fell unconscious to the floor.

* * *

Light, then dark. Then light again. But it was night? Hmmm. Pictures, moving pictures. A man, Victor Maxwell. Running alongside him through the forest. Or was it a jungle? Or was it a desert? No, there were trees. Stopping. A funeral pyre. No, not a funeral pyre, a sacrificial altar. But on fire, a woman screaming in agony as the flames licked around her, burning her flesh.

Phileas screamed. He screamed now as he screamed then. He ran forward, into the clearing, past the mass of standing bodies, to the altar. There was no way to reach the woman. She was dying, and he was too late.

Maxwell rushing up to him now. Pulling Phileas away. No luck. They were surrounded.

Black again. Then light once more. Dark haze on the edge of his vision. Victor Maxwell now on the altar, which was no longer aflame. Victor's bare chest mocking him. Phileas' hand reaching out, touching flesh. Moving into flesh. Grasping tissue, pulling. Withdrawing, holding something aloft. Victor's still-beating heart. Phileas smiled, showing the heart to the congregation before him. Kamir Behram nodded proudly as Phileas threw the heart into the crowd.

Men moved forward, torches in their hands. Lighting the kindling under the altar. Victor still screaming. Behram cackling malevolently. Phileas knew he should move away from the altar, but something... was it loyalty? But Victor did not worship Kali, why should Phileas be loyal to such an unbeliever? He did not know. Yet he could not move.

The flames licked up and up, burning, Victor's screams dying away.

The flames now touched Phileas' own skin, he was too close to the altar. He screamed in pain, hurried away and collapsed to the ground. He tried catching his breath, and then...

Oh God. What have I done?

He cried out in horror, and ran from the terrible scene as fast as he could.

Kali told Phileas to wake. So he did.

He was lying on a cold stone slab in a small antechamber. He swung his legs over the side of the slab and stood up. His vision was slightly clouded with a black haze but he could still see clearly enough. Looking down, he noted his coat and shirt had been removed, leaving him bare-chested. His trousers and boots remained as normal. He left the little room and went in search of someone to tell him what to do. That was what Kali had instructed him to do. He must find Kamir Behram.

It was good to obey Kali, he knew. He felt a nice warm glow inside whenever he followed her instructions. Just like when he started looking for Kamir Behram.

Eventually, he found the high priest. The tall man was looking over a precipice behind the main temple chamber, gazing proudly down at a small mining operation. Dozens of young children toiled at the hard rock face below, chipping with picks and clawing with fingers, with whatever they had. Behram noticed Phileas beside him and smiled, turning to face the new recruit.

"Welcome, my friend," Behram said warmly. "Did you sleep well?"

Phileas nodded. "Quite well."

"The Black Sleep of Kali is a refreshing time. We have all enjoyed the communion it gives us with our goddess." He nodded towards the mine workings. "Do you know what we are doing here?"

"No, sir."

Behram focused his attention back to the mine. "For decades we have been searching for the sacred Sankara Stones. I understand one of the Stones is what brought you to us. What wondrous powers they have, to bring you all the way from England. And they have so many more secrets. But they do like to hide, to give us a challenge. We have two already, including the one we reclaimed from your country. Three more remain out there, waiting for us to discover them. And discover them we shall." His voice hardened. "Despite the efforts of governments to destroy us."

"Yes, sir," Phileas replied dutifully.

"Come, I will show you." Behram walked from the precipice, leading Phileas back into the now deserted main temple chamber. Near the base of the statue of Kali, there was a giant carved human skull. In each eye sat one Sankara Stone. Phileas looked at them with pride. They were gathering the Stones in the service of Kali. All for her!

"But we must punish those who attempt to stop us." Behram clapped his hands once. After a few seconds, a number of guards filed out from corridors off the temple, and worshipers began filling the space across the chasm. The cage hanging from Kali's hands was lowered to the ground, resting on the now-closed opening beneath it. Behram smiled and clapped once again.

A woman was brought forth and led to the cage. She was beautiful, thought Phileas, a perfect sacrifice to Kali. She was clad in a simple white robe which billowed around her as she struggled in the arms of her guards. The woman caught sight of Phileas and gasped, her struggling easing. "Phileas!" she cried out. "Help me!"

Phileas narrowed his eyes. How does she know my name? he puzzled to himself. Odd. No matter. She was still a proper victim for his goddess. Kali demanded sacrifice, so sacrifice they must.

The red-haired woman was placed (not without some struggle) inside the upright cage and locked inside it. The guards moved off, one standing by the wench, the other by the control to open the panel beneath the cage.

"Phileas, come back to me!" the woman wailed. "What have they done to you, don't you recognize me? It's Rebecca! Rebecca Fogg, your cousin! Phileas!"

Phileas looked to Behram, who had donned his skull-and-horns headdress. The congregations chanting had already begun, and now Behram began to intone the words of the sacrificial ceremony, the Sanskrit words thundering throughout the rocky chamber in his sepulchral voice.

The words came easy to Phileas, Kali had placed them in his mind. "Kali protects us now and forever, and we must pledge our devotion by worshiping her with an offering of flesh and blood..."

"Phileas, no!" the woman cried as he approached her. The victim was ready, Kali demanded her blood. He reached out to her, his hand slowly approaching her chest.

He froze.

Kali demanded her blood. But this felt... wrong, somehow. Kali demanded her sacrifice. He tried to continue, but could not move. He felt Behram's eyes on him as he pulled back. He knew he had disappointed Kali, and Behram. But for some reason he could not touch this woman's flesh. The resistance within himself was too powerful. Instead, he shuffled to the side, near one of the stone walls. He hung his head in shame, not sure if he could ever face the wrath of Kali he knew would be his punishment. In the faraway depths of his mind, something told him his punishment for harming the woman would be even greater than the anger of Kali.

Behram nodded to one of the guards, who turned to the mecahnism that opened the panel under the cage.

Phileas noticed a torch hanging on the wall next to him. He reached out, forcing his hand into the bright glow. The flames licked the flesh of his hand, but still he held it steady. Oh, God, the pain! He screamed in agony, collapsing against the rock wall, clutching his scorched hand.

God, he had said. Not goddess. He was free! That was what had happened with Victor all those years ago. The flames had burned him and freed his mind from the clutches of Kali. However it worked, it worked, thankfully.

He lifted his head to see Rebecca in the metal cage, shrinking back from the approach of the high priest.

"Behram!" Phileas called out angrily.

Behram turned, his face wrenching into a snarl. He snapped his fingers and sent his guards rushing towards Phileas while he returned his attention to Rebecca.

Phileas dealt quickly with the mind-controlled servants of Kali. A few punches and kicks and they were finished. By the time he dispatched the underlings, he rushed at Behram, who was reeling from a punch Rebecca had let loose after somehow freeing one of her arms from its shackles.

A leaping kick knocked Behram to the ground, and Phileas rushed to the cage. He had opened the little door for Rebecca but was unable to help her with her other arm and legs before Behram was up and slamming into his back. Phileas spun and kneed Behram in the face, knocking the headdress off and onto the ground.

Another handful of guards rushed into the chamber from behind the statue of Kali, but by this time Rebecca had freed herself and was able to turn her attention to them.

Phileas was knocked back by two quick punches thrown by the high priest, but countered with a gut punch of his own. Behram doubled over and scurried backwards away from Phileas' kick. He teetered on the brink of the chasm as Phileas slowly approached. Phileas punched Behram once, growling, "This is for Victor Maxwell!" Another punch. "This is for Rebecca!" Behram fell backwards towards the chasm, but Phileas grabbed his collar. A pause, just to see the fear in Behram's maniacal face. "And this is for me," he hissed as he let go. Behram screamed as he fell, down into the depths of the fiery chasm.

With a shuddering sigh, Phileas looked up, and saw the angry faces of the congregation who stood impotently on the other side of the wide crevasse. Phileas smiled grimly at them and swung back to assist Rebecca. However, Rebecca was just landing a final blow on the last guard standing. As the hapless minion fell, Rebecca turned and saw Phileas. The two cousins rushed to embrace each other. Phileas looked into her eyes.

"I know what you're going to say," Rebecca said tiredly.

"How the hell do we get out of here?" Phileas answered.

"Exactly." She looked over at the chasm. It was too far to attempt a jump. "I don't know any other way out, do you?"

"I can recall the way I arrived, but we would have to be on the other side of this chasm," Phileas replied sourly. "I don't even want to think about traipsing through that filthy mine back there."

"A mine?"

"Never mind. Chasm it is."

Phileas looked around quickly. His eyes landed on the cage within which Rebecca had recently been imprisoned. "Perhaps with that?" he suggested. He rushed over to the cage and grasped it firmly. Rebecca went to the winch and began working it to give the chains some slack. After some struggling, they managed to bring the cage over to the chasm, and prepared to drop it so the top end fell onto the far side of the crevasse.

Rebecca nodded at the angry crowd. "We'll still have to get through them, you know."

"I'm ready if you are," Phileas said calmly.

"Right."

They let go of the cage, and it toppled over. It approached horizontal, and to their horror they could see it wouldn't reach all the way across. It was short by several feet. Phileas grabbed at the cage while Rebecca rushed back to the winch. She struggled with it, but working with Phileas they managed to lock the chains into holding the cage horizontal, the base of the metal framework butting against the side of the chasm just below the lip.

Phileas risked a step onto. "It seems steady enough, let's go!" he called, and Rebecca rushed over to his side.

"What about the stone?" Rebecca shouted over the din of the mob. She looked back at the skull and the stones held within it. "The mission--"

"The mission can go to hell, and so can Sir Jonathan Chatsworth!" Phileas retorted. "Now, go!"

Rebecca shook her head, but knew it was pointless to argue with an angry Phileas. Rebecca followed Phileas as he leapt from the cage to the other side of the abyss, scrambling to keep from falling, and dodging the vicious attacks of the angry mob. They pushed and fought and wrestled with the zealous followers of Kali, dodging swords and fists, and eventually broke away near the entrance at the back of the temple. Phileas and Rebecca dashed through the doors, throwing them shut behind them as they ran as fast as their legs could carry them.

The mob crashed through the entrance, slamming the doors open again, rushing after their quarry.

Phileas led Rebecca through the corridors, up the stairs, across courtyards, recognizing each stage of the journey from his arrival. All the time, the crowd closed in on them, gaining ground upon the fleeing cousins.

As they raced out of a corridor and through a doorway, they found themselves in the main entrance courtyard where they had first split up what seemed like ages ago. They were almost out of the palace, but their pursuers had almost caught up with them. They hurried as fast as they could, but Phileas felt a desperate hand claw at his shoulder.

Suddenly that hand and its owner were knocked back. Phileas turned as he continued running, to see a stain of blood spread on the prostrate man's chest as his fellow Thuggees held back in momentary fear. He looked back, and saw a crowd of soldiers in British uniform lining the entrance and reloading rifles. Phileas grabbed Rebecca's hand and together they reached the safety of the British ranks.

Phileas turned to watch the fight. The British soldiers fired their rifles again. The Thuggees had recovered from their temporary fright , waved their swords frenziedly, and rushed the line. The British switched to their fixed bayonets and fought hand-to-hand, or rifle to sword as it were. Eventually the British soldiers dominated, and the few remaining Thuggees fled back into the palace.

A tall, dignified, grey-haired man with a thin grey mustache, wearing the markings of a general, raised is voice. "Hunt them down, men! For Queen and Country!" His soldiers charged off and pursued the remnants of the Thuggee crowd. The general turned to Phileas and Rebecca. "Ah, there you are," he said. He smiled a charmingly kind smile and held out his hand to Rebecca. "General Sir Charles Niven, at your service," he said and kissed the back of Rebecca's hand.

"Rebecca Fogg, Sir Charles," Rebecca said sweetly.

"Phileas Fogg," Phileas added as he shook hands with the general. "How did you--" He broke off as he saw Jules Verne and Passepartout rush towards him from another group of soldiers trooping up the entrance ramp. "Ah."

General Niven glanced back and saw the two men approaching. "Yes, indeed, these two gentleman enlisted the help of Captain Brosnan, who knew I was in the vicinity, and sent them to me in their wonderful balloon. Quite an ingenious contraption, I must say. And, well, here I am. Or rather, here we are. My orders are to root out the Thuggees and destroy them, if at all possible. Filthy blackguards, they'll get what's coming to them, I dare say."

Jules and Passepartout reached the Foggs, and all four embraced in a tired, happy hug as the soldiers filed past, pretending not to notice the little knot of civilians engaging in a display of affection.

* * *

Captain Brosnan set down his teacup as he leaned back in his chair. He sat with Phileas, Rebecca, Jules and Passepartout around a small table in his courtyard near his office. "A excellent outcome," he announced happily. "Well, for the most part. The Thuggees have been driven out of Pankot Palace. Unfortunately, they appear to have taken both Sankara Stones with them in their flight. I have men searching for them, but as you know, they can be devious and elusive in the extreme."

Phileas sighed, sipping from his own cup. "Indeed," he replied. He turned to Rebecca, who sat across the table from him. "I do apologize, Rebecca. I know your mission must now appear to be a failure."

"Nonsense," Captain Brosnan said, "the fact that the two of you returned from the clutches of the Thuggees is a success of monumental proportions. I will write in my report of your bravery and courage. I refuse to consider it a failure."

Rebecca smiled demurely at the handsome, dark-haired captain. Was that a twinkle in his eye? "Thank you, Captain," she said sweetly. "That is most generous of you. But I still return to England empty-handed."

"Not quite," Brosnan said smoothly. He snapped his fingers, and from a nearby alcove, Edwards approached carrying a small wooden box. Setting the box down on the table before his captain, Edwards withdrew to stand a short distance away.

Brosnan opened the lid of the box, and lifted a sparkling, fist-sized diamond from within. "I admit, it's not as magnificent as the Koh-i-Noor, but it is quite, quite beautiful." As he spoke, his eyes lifted to gaze at Rebecca. There was that twinkle again! she thought. "A gift for Her Majesty. I did not ask where the Governer acquired it."

"Very wise," Phileas nodded. He leaned across to peer at the gem. "Hmmm. Quite beautiful, indeed." Rebecca glanced at him, only to confirm that he was completely oblivious to the sparks flying right in front of him.

"Does it have a name?" Rebecca inquired, her warm eyes gazing unblinkingly at the captain.

"It does," Brosnan answered happily. "It is known simply as 'Aouda'."

* * *

The Aurora was returning to England. The four travelers were on board, tired, exhausted, but glad to be alive and happy to still be together. Passepartout guided the craft through the clouds as Phileas, Rebecca and Jules stood at the front of the craft, gazing out of the large main windows.

"And yet another adventure under our belts," Phileas mused quietly.

"We survived," Rebecca added.

"Quite. Though not without some difficulty."

Rebecca placed a comforting hand on her cousin's shoulder. "Are you... all right?"

Phileas smiled affectionately at her. "I am. The past is... the past. I think we should be paying more attention to the future. Don't you think, Verne?"

Jules looked up from writing in his journal. "I do indeed. The future is out there, waiting for us."

Phileas straightened, tugged the lapels of his jacket, and smiled. "Passepartout!" he called.

"Yes, master?" Passepartout replied, and Rebecca could hear the warmth of his smile as he said those two simple words.

"New heading," Phileas ordered, his smile lighting up his eyes. "The future, if you please..."

**THE END**

**Endnotes**  
And so I bid a hugely fond farewell (for the foreseeable future, at least, it feels like to me) to Rebecca Fogg, Phileas Fogg, Jean Passepartout, and Jules Verne. The SAJV fandom (and family) has meant a lot to me over the past years. I still love the show, I still love the characters and the actors. I still love the friends I've made through the fandom. But it's become harder and harder to find plot bunnies and in general gear up for writing SAJV fanfic. Maybe because I'm losing touch with the characters, not watching the episodes as often, not reading other SAJV fanfic as much, or something else. Maybe other universes are calling to me (new Doctor Who, Firefly). I don't know.

This story's been in gestation for a long time now, I can't even remember when the plot bunny attacked me. But attack me it did, and wouldn't let go. In particular, the opening scene was very vivid in my mind when first working on the story. It, along with the rest of the tale, has gone through many changes, I've come up with some good ideas and then promptly forgotten them, remembered a few, pieced things together, tweaked, worked, had fun, wrote. Y'know, the usual.

Some of you may have noticed my little references to the various incarnations of "Around the World in 80 Days." In fact, this whole story was sort of a melding of ATWI80D and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (like you couldn't tell). Apologies for yet another blatant rip-off/crossover fic from yours truly. Anyway, 80 Days references. Ken Palin is a nod to Michael Palin (who often played characters named Ken, such as in A Fish Called Wanda) and his 1988 travel series ATWI80D. James Brosnan is a reference to Pierce Brosnan (James Bond, natch) who played Phileas Fogg in the 1989 ATWI80D TV mini-series. And Charles Niven is a nod to David Niven (who played Charles Litton (or Lytton, depending on your source) in the Pink Panther films) from the 1956 ATWI80D motion picture. Probably the three most well-known editions of ATWI80D, at least IMHO.

The little boy who saw the travelers arrive at the village grows up one day to become the white-haired Shaman of the village visited by Indiana Jones, Willie Scott and Short Round in 1935.

Abandoned plot elements include Jules helping the suffering villagers institute an irrigation system to help their dying crops (thanks to their stolen Sankara Stone, the theft of which got modified plot-wise too), Aouda was to be the girl being sacrificed before our gang stopped the ceremony, Passepartout would've developed romantic feelings for Aouda (Aouda would've been more interested in Phileas, poor Passepartout, he'd've been gentlemanly about the rejection though), the Aurora helping to build the rope bridge across the canyon (as seen in Temple of Doom) to help our heroes escape the pursuing Thuggees, etc. Another big change to the story happened by accident, the whole flashback subplot with Phileas and his former partner came about through simply writing the first scene with Phileas. It kind of happened in a natural progression sort of way. Who knew?

I wish I could've found a way to make Jules and Passepartout somewhat more active in the story, especially since it looks like my SAJV fanfic swansong but it just didn't work out that way. But I had them along on the journey anyway, and they did prove themselves valuable in the story.

Thank you to everyone who has helped me in the past with my fic, whether directly or indirectly, whether they know it or not, past present and future. Thank you to all who've read my stuff and enjoyed it (or not), commented (or not), etc. Special props to dear Moonhart, who did some beta-ing for me a couple of times, and helped to open my eyes to more advanced writing "stuff" like POV, character emotions, etc. I tend to be focused on plot, plot, plot, and even then not to any strong and/or smart degree. But I try, and I have fun.

And it's been fun.

Thanks, everyone!

--Kevin

**Disclaimers**  
The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne copyright/etc Promark/Talisman  
Elements from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom copyright Paramount Pictures  
No infringement on anything is intended.


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